


The In Between

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attack leaves Mohinder in a coma, unsure how to break free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The In Between

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mylar Fic Holiday Prompt Table: "New Year's Day"

**I **

There is a commotion of voices and strange, but worried (_for him_?), faces all around.

The fluorescent lights tracking the hospital’s ceiling make Mohinder squint, yet it does little to help make clear the blurry picture he finds himself stuck in, distant and disconnected from.

The pain in his chest (_oh god, not the heart_) is unbelievable, but no matter how much he tries to move, no matter how badly he wants to wrap his arms around his chest and curl up into a ball, his body refuses to cooperate.

Mohinder turns his head in an attempt to take in the details of his surroundings, at the very least searching for a familiar face to use as an anchor. A doctor to his right meets his questioning eyes and offers him a terse smile.

Trying to reach his hand up to her arm, Mohinder fumbles the words, “I’m—can’t be—where—,”

She squeezes his hand. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’ve got some very insistent people in your corner.”

He wants to ask what she means, but the words don’t form and she’s already looking away. With the loss of contact, despite the group of people racing hard to save his life, there comes a sense of utter hopelessness. Over the years he has come to realize control can be a fleeting concept, a delusional state of mind that is only true half the time. And in this moment he has none of it.

Tears (_or blood, who the hell knows_) drip down his face and a flash of pain shoots through his body. Mohinder cries out before he can bite it back, hating the weakness the sound conveys. Bit by bit, it is as if everything is falling away and he is searching with a strained grasp for solid ground.

Suddenly the copper stench of blood fills his nostrils and knowing he is the one bleeding out, hanging by a thread, raises putrid bile in his throat. He must go from looking grave to looking like death because a metal bowl is already being held out to him the second he is wheeled into the operating room, turning on his side to throw up.

A confusing clattering of voices bounces off the walls and Mohinder closes his eyes and gasps, choking out the last of the sickness that is now coating his throat. Struggling for breath, he opens his eyes and stares at the repulsive mixture of bile and blood.

Two sets of hands help him onto his back.

_Blood. _

That can’t be good.

**II **

Beginnings are a strange thing.

Life is an endless (if stilted at times) progression, but when the end of the tunnel draws closer it is human nature to reflect, to pinpoint specific moments when everything that follows can be attributed to a choice.

It would be easy for Mohinder to blame his father for decisions made over the body of a dying daughter, and though those very ones still informed their lives years later, Mohinder doesn’t like feeling like a victim of circumstances beyond his control.

He could place the blame on Sylar, or Gabriel for that matter, who, frustrated and resilient, grabbed the opportunity with a murderous chokehold and never let go. Death begat a whole new life, and twisted the thorn in Mohinder’s side. But no one forced Mohinder to stay within the convoluted realm of secret agencies and mind-spinning evolution. No one made him reside at the center of the strange world order and become one of its definitive players. The universe didn’t thrust Sylar upon him as a permanent nemesis nor did it position Mohinder as the counterpoint to Samuel and his growing faction.

Those diverging life altering points may have traveled an array of tangents to crisscross with his, but it is Mohinder who took them on, recklessly and deliberately.

Imprinted on his mind is the glint in Samuel’s eyes right before the third attempt on Mohinder’s life. It was the split second warning, before the stones-turned-bullets pierced his chest, that life would always exist on a tightrope, never a sure thing. It was the scoffing insult that there were more people who could do Mohinder harm than cared to fight for his life.

The glint said, _You’re an obstacle_.

It seems to be a recurring theme in Mohinder’s life—getting in the way.

Fitting that should be what kills him.

 

**III   
**  
He spots Matt halfway up the block just _standing_ there while New York busies about. Mohinder jogs towards him with a bright smile, happy (_relieved_) to see his friend after far too long. But the closer he gets, the stronger the sense grows telling him something isn’t right.

In fact, something is very wrong.

It is definitely Matt waiting for him with a muted smile. Still, Mohinder hesitates, pulling up short and almost tripping over his feet. He furrows his brow. In response, Matt curls his mouth up into a smirk—

Mohinder’s stomach turns and his chest constricts.

“It took you long enough,” Matt says but Mohinder is already turning away as déjà vu pumps concern (_flight or fight…or fright_) from head to toe.

The movement isn’t fast but it takes a few seconds for Mohinder’s eyes to take in the changing scenery. He is in his old lab but it looks like an artist’s studio (_Isaac’s loft_) before The Company took it over. Paintings in various states of completion fill the space and Mohinder finds himself stopping in front of the one depicting Peter flying. He has no idea how much time passes, not realizing he has company, until he hears a throat clear behind him.

“Doctor Suresh?” Hiro looks anxious as he approaches, his shoulders hunched and steps quick. “You must be careful—,”

“The Butterfly Man, right?” Mohinder asks with a hint of amusement at the nickname. “He’s coming.”

Hiro frowns. “He’s already here.” Placing his hands on Mohinder’s shoulder, Hiro closes his eyes to teleport them.

Mohinder feels the light weight on his body and Hiro’s grip makes him think of Peter, except there’s something else flowing forth from the curled fingers and bruising touch. It scares him—and stops him from churning haphazardly.

Mohinder blinks.

He is sitting at the kitchen table in his apartment. For some reason he feels like he is in India and his mother is in the room next door, but it looks like his New York flat. In the distance, amidst the noise of the bustling city, he hears voices.

 

**IV**

“What can I say, I don’t trust he’ll be okay here.”

“This is probably the safest place for him to be.”

“I still think someone should be here at all times, just in case.”

“You think he’ll try another attack?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. And if not him, then…”

“…he’s been off the grid for years.”

“Doesn’t mean he hasn’t been planning something all that time.”

“You think all this time later, he’ll want to finish the job?”

“…I don’t know what he wants, but I’m not risking Mohinder’s life either way. He’s practically a sitting duck here.”

“Did the doctor say what his prognosis is?”

“He could wake up tomorrow…or ten years from now. No one has any idea.”

 

**V**

The front door of the apartment is locked, oddly enough from the outside, meaning Mohinder can twist and turn the doorknob until his hand is sore and bleeding, but it’s all for naught.

The thought only serves to worry him more when he realizes he cannot open the windows either. Thankfully he can draw back the curtains and see outside, but the city below is mostly empty except for the dull haze of moving colours.

There are times he thinks he can hear a conversation drifting up from the street or in the hallway just outside his front door. However, nothing he does by way of shouting or pounding on the door causes anyone to take any notice of him. Sometimes the phone rings and though the person on the other end of the line apparently can’t hear him, the familiar voice is a rush of comfort.

“The longer you’re in there, the more you’re missing Bennet’s attempts to school us in the art of being secret agents,” Peter says listlessly. “He says we should cut and run, that we’re targets by visiting you.”

Peter’s voice becomes more urgent. “C’mon! Are you going to let him call the shots like that? I could use your backup. I…I miss you.”

Mohinder lowers the receiver and stares down at his other hand, certain he can feel he faint sensation of fingers curling around his.

Matt always sounds frustrated, as if he’s using Mohinder as a sounding board for his own issues. “This is a nightmare. Janice is finally ready to let me see my own son and then the reason for keeping him away in the first place, or is it the second place now, turns up again. All I wanted was to be a detective, a husband and a father. I didn’t sign up for the rest—did you? You were better at it than me, but I don’t think this is what you had in mind…I hope your head is in a good place…if it’s not, maybe I could help out.”

Mohinder knows it’s an offhand comment, not an offer, yet he tries screaming into the phone for Matt not to manipulate anything and risk putting Mohinder further out of reach in this cerebral prison.

Bennet is always short and blunt. His compliments are backhanded. “I have to say, you proved tougher than I first gave you credit for. Too bad it wasn’t enough. Then again so few have what it takes.”

Mohinder rolls his eyes and pounds his fist against the window, until he is exhausted and had to sit down on the floor with his back against the wall.

“My sweet child,” his mother murmurs soothingly, springing tears to his eyes. “What complicated and fantastical turns has your life taken you on? You’re too far from home, Mohinder. You’re a silhouette on the distant horizon. It’s time to turn around and walk back.”

He closes his eyes at the soft touch of lips pressed to his forehead.

“Please—,”

Mohinder’s eyes fly open at the sound of Molly’s quiet voice, sad and lost.

“Come home.”

He ransacks the apartment, but cannot exorcise the defeat that wrestles him into a state of stagnation. There’s futility in a fight that goes nowhere in a battle only one side is waging. Standing among the wreckage of his own doing, Mohinder thinks he would be better off dead.

 

**VI**

“Wake up, sleepyhead. It’s a brand new day.”

Mohinder kicks at the door, throws a lamp against the window (which it bounces off) and tosses the phone across the room.

An hour later he goes about cleaning up the mess he has, once again, created. As he makes sure the phone still has a dial tone, it rings. With a sigh he walks over to the window, pulls the curtains back and stares outside. Clicking the answer button, he listens.

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” Peter says reverently. “This is not the way your story plays out—stuck in your body while the world goes on without you, already replacing you…this…this is a setback; a momentary pause. I know you are meant for far better things.”

In the distance Mohinder hears another voice, one he can’t identify.

“Back already, sir?”

“I don’t like leaving him alone too long,” Peter says.

“That’s good. People sometimes forget their loved ones are still in there, somewhere, and he can hear your voice trying to reach him, trying to help. He’s just not sure about finding the right way out.”

“…he’s smart. He’ll figure it out.”

Mohinder feels a slight pressure on his shoulder followed by the heat of another hand wrapping around his. Surprise jolts him to attention. There is nothing faint about the touch. It is unmistakable, undeniable. The heat of another in the palm of his hand is almost scalding in the absence of it for so long.

He is suddenly aware of the sun’s light against the window. For the first time, he can feel its warmth against the glass. Even though the figures outside are still unclear, Mohinder is far too caught up in what _has_ changed…and why.

Peter’s voice on the other end of the line is at once more insistent, low and determined. “You’re going to wake up from this, you understand? We’re going to finish what we started. I’m not letting you get off this easy, sleeping in that brain of yours. I know you. Sitting back and doing nothing isn’t your style. Fight, damnit. Fight!”

Mohinder’s heart pounds anxiously and he raises his left hand to the window and with a bit of effort manages to open it an inch. A cool breeze spills across the tiny opening and Mohinder drops the phone to the floor. Fitting both hands into the tight space, he conjures up more strength and opens the window the rest of the way.

 

**VII**

Slowly, Mohinder flutters open his eyes.

The onslaught of light (a mix of natural light from the hospital room’s window and the sickly yellow artificial haze from the ceiling) that greets him is harsh. He closes his eyes and manages a small moan, the vibrations working his sore throat. That’s when he feels the hand around his left one tighten; but with blurry vision he can barely make out the dark hair on Peter’s head, let alone any distinguishing features.

“Peter?” he croaks.

The hand around his feels stronger and Mohinder thinks the person (_Peter_?) leans in to whisper something yet pulls back at the last minute. Mohinder squeezes the grip in return. It is his lifeline, holding him to the world he has longed to set foot in again. The hold is powerful, refusing to let him go again. He has missed the urgency of breathing life and the familiarity of calm at its core. He wants to fold himself up in it and shout it out at the top of his lungs. He wants—

“Has Rip Van Winkle woken up?” A stranger’s voice asks from far away.

The grip loosens first then is gone. Mohinder stretches his fingers, seeking the touch out again, only he is met with cold air. However, he has already stepped back permanently into the world with both feet. The room comes into sharper focus, however the person at his side is already out the door.

“Sir, don’t you want to stay?” The perplexed nurse asks.

“I have to—I’ll be back soon—calls to make,” is the muffled reply from the hallway.

 

**VIII**

Four weeks into a brand new year, Mohinder finally feels settled back into life. It’s nowhere near as dangerous as it used to be (_doctor’s orders repeats over and over_) but he figures he’s had enough excitement for awhile. A breather would do him good.

It’s a laid back afternoon in his apartment, hanging out with Peter, eating pizza and lounging around the living room like university students procrastinating on an all-nighter. While Peter sips his beer and contentedly stares off at nothing, a tiny smile playing on his lips, Mohinder feels it right to let Peter know the role he played in Mohinder’s recovery. In times of questioning his place and connection to others, it’s a tremendous realization for Mohinder to not feel quite so alone.

“I mean it, Peter. You were as much the reason for my recovery as my own will to do so.”

A slight flush rises up Peter’s neck and tinges his cheeks. Lifting his beer bottle, he tips the neck in Mohinder’s direction and nods his head bashfully.

Mohinder rolls his head back and closes his eyes. “I can still hear you right before it happened, telling me to finish what we started, to not sit back and do nothing. To fight…I could feel your presence stronger than ever before.”

“Is that what I did?” Peter muses.

Mohinder looks up at him and smiles. “And here I thought my coming out of a coma with you there was a profound experience for us both.”

Peter furrows his brow. “I think you’re misremembering.”

“What? That when it mattered most I wasn’t alone—you were there insisting I not give up, that my life was meant for greater things. I’ll never forget that.”

Peter’s affectionately lopsided grin pulls into a straight line. “How many beers have you had?”

“One.” Mohinder sits up straight and levels a stern gaze his way. “What’s wrong?”

Peter regards him a moment then puts his bottle down and hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. “Nothing’s wrong, it’s just…I wasn’t there when you woke up.”

“What are you talking about? Of course you were—,”

“No. I was there earlier that morning and then afterwards. In fact, I was walking into the hospital at the time.”

“I think I know the difference between you and someone else, Peter. Your voice and   
your—,”

But Mohinder cannot say ‘touch’ without acknowledging the questioning concern that now has Peter thinking hard. Mohinder _does_ know Peter’s touch and the one he felt at the time of his incredible recovery was not the same one. It was distinct, yet intimate, very personal, powerful.

“I wish to god I was there,” Peter says. “But it was looking like we needed to be in for the long haul with you which meant some business needed to be taken care of, and then suddenly you were back.”

Mohinder is only half listening. The other part of his brain is trying to connect Peter’s voice to the words he said when Mohinder was stuck in the hospital bed, in that other world. The voice was the same but the tone, the inflection; the word choice was _different_. It _was_ Peter in the hospital, except…

Mohinder’s stomach tightens. “If it wasn’t you, then…”

He can’t bring himself to say the name. Not that it matters. Peter is on his feet in a flash, dialing Bennet on his cellphone to warn him about Sylar’s return.

Surprisingly it isn’t panic that fills Mohinder but confused wonder. Was it a new year’s resolution that brought Sylar to Mohinder’s side, striving to ensure another year of conflict between them? Had Sylar felt pity or amusement at Mohinder’s weakened state? Or was he driven by the need to reset an imbalance?

Just as importantly, why had Mohinder responded so viscerally? In his coma state, were his defense mechanisms still strongly in tune to protection? Did his mind still revel in the cerebral battleground they danced about years before? Had he felt his curiosities justified—the ones he never told Peter, about _feeling_ Sylar nearby at times, watching? Did he want to believe he held a position of importance in Sylar’s life, the same way Sylar held a place (_secretly_) in his?

Does Sylar know that now? Does Mohinder?

Either way a new stage has been set, with old rules made new or qualified with clauses. While Peter speaks quickly into the phone, Mohinder drifts his gaze to the window, while a myriad of thoughts bounce off each other with no definitive certainty, except to say, _Wake up_.   
 


End file.
